


Dishes

by Celebrimbor_Of_Eregion



Series: Angsty Silvergifting (and Other Angsty Celebrimbor Things) [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-06 17:43:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16837366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celebrimbor_Of_Eregion/pseuds/Celebrimbor_Of_Eregion
Summary: AU where Tyelpë faces universal hatred after the War of Wrath and has to work as a servant. Shit happens.





	Dishes

Sighing, Tyelpë drags the wet cloth across the greasy dish one more time. His arms hurt, and the dish is heavily soiled by that nice fat goose he cooked but never got to try. His hands tremble; he is not sure if that is because of the master beating him or his general feeling of distress. 

Tyelpë does not have the luxury to think too much about his feelings. His jewelsmithing days are long gone, and so is the time when he was the armorer for the host of the Valar. He is now a shard of the violent past, an unwanted reminder of all the nightmares that had befallen Beleriand; a Fëanorian. Someone who would have been glorified if he died but was an utter inconvenience among the living.

It all went downhill after the war. No one would do business with a Fëanorian; no one would even talk to him, except for his father’s creditors. He had no knowledge of Curufin having taken so many loans, but the documents appeared in order, and he had no one to call on, no one to ask for help. Servitude was an obvious choice: he had the manners and some knowledge of how things were organized in a house; besides, he could hire himself out to the Edain who cared little about Elven grudges. It would be fine, he thought, just scrub the floors and pay off the debts. Eru, how stupid he was.

It did not seem that dreadful at first, the nice, neat house of a wealthy trader. Other servants seemed tacit and repressed, and he foolishly assumed that they were merely unaccustomed to having an Elf around.

It wasn’t that.

Tyelpë served the dinner that night, and he was so sure he’d done everything correctly. Master and his wife seemed fine. But afterwards, when he was doing the dishes (oh, those dreadful dishes!), master entered the kitchen and informed him that he had put the wrong pepper shaker. Red instead of black; he didn’t know there was a black one, he was new to the house! He tried to explain that as he apologized - and oh, he shouldn’t have done this.

“I will have no Elf scum argue with me,” the man hissed, his wild eyes running around, searching for something until they spotted a rolling pin.

Tyelpë was totally unprepared for what came next, a cruel hand in his hair, being bent over the kitchen counter, and the loud, dull pain in his back as the pin hit it over and over again. He did not think to defend himself, but even if he tried, his grief, heartbreak, and lack of decent food had thinned him to an extent where he would have been weaker than the Adan. Sobbing at his helplessness, Tyelpë submitted himself to the treatment and prayed to Aulë for it to be over soon.

It was. “Serves you right,” master spat out and threw the pin aside. 

Tyelpë didn’t even hear the man leaving. He was surprised to find himself sitting on the floor, leaning against a cupboard despite the pain and nursing a silver goblet, the one he liked because, for whatever reason, there was an eight-rayed star on it. He did not remember for how long he sat there, late into the night, staring into the wall and thinking about cold winters in Himlad, but there was not much time left for sleeping.

The next day felt more like a nightmare. His back, shoulders, neck, his heart, everything ached and demanded rest. Tyelpë only did some lighter work, assuming it would be fine after the beating, but again, for the second time this week, he was wrong.

In the evening, he was “invited” to the basement where he had never been before. Curious and a little scared, Tyelpë descended into the dark room illuminated by a few candles, to see his master standing up next to an odd construction. He only opened his mouth to ask for the purpose of this, but the next second, he was pulled over by the hair, his head and neck getting trapped between the wooden bars.

“What is this?!” Tyelpë sobbed, horrified. “I don’t understand…”

“What, you don’t?” master laughed. “You were slacking up a lot today. Do you not know what happens to servants who do that? They get whipped!”

_ Whipped?  _ Him, whipped?! Tyelpë wanted to argue, wanted to contradict, this could not be real, this could not be happening…

And yet it was. His shirt was torn in two, and then the whip whistled in the air and landed onto his back. The pain was maddening. Tyelpë only began to process it when he received another hit, and then another, and more, until his mind went numb and his throat felt scratchy, even though he had not heard himself scream.

He prefers not to think of what was after that.

“I hope the lesson is learned, and I won’t have to do it again,” master smiled, putting the whip aside. “Would be a shame to ruin such a beautiful body.”

Tyelpë twitched at the whipping post, trying to break free, feeling something was off.

“Shh,” master’s hand ran down his bloodied back, to his bottom, and squeezed it. “What’s wrong? Aren’t you Elves accustomed to this type of thing?”

_ What type of thing?  _ His lovely nights with Finrod had nothing to do with this!

There was no way to escape when his master’s hands ripped his trousers and pushed his thighs apart. Tyelpë moaned in pain when he was entered, roughly, unprepared, the way he’d never been treated before.

“So you like this?” the man chuckled. “Good, good boy, such a good boy for me…” He pounded and pounded into Tyelpë until, soon enough, he shuddered, biting into the Elf’s neck, and came. Tyelpë was both relieved and disgusted. The feeling of warm seed dripping down his thighs made him nauseous. He would not sleep that night, his aching back and the pain between his cheeks driving him insane.

Many ripped garments, bruises, hideous moans, white and red stains, and shameful showers later, Tyelpë is cleaning the greasy dish. He can see his own tattoo through the hole in his shirt, his loved, loved eight-rayed star. By now, he has no memory and no care for the kinslayings, only endless love and longing for his dearest family.

“Fëanor?” he asks quietly, looking at the star. “What would you do?”

He already knows the answer. Fëanor would smash. Fëanor would burn. Fëanor would live in the street and eat his own foot rather than let some bastard rape him.

Tyelpë isn’t Fëanor. He is a kind, soft-spoken, law-abiding Elf.

And he puts down the greasy dish to go upstairs and pack his things.


End file.
